


A Reflection Breathing Out of Turn

by JJK



Series: Life, Interrupted 'Deleted Scenes' [1]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Smut, Time Travel, Underage Drinking, selfcest, the wonders of time travel, this slightly strange, time traveler's wife au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-14
Updated: 2013-10-14
Packaged: 2017-12-29 10:26:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1004295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JJK/pseuds/JJK
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Time Traveller’s Wife AU where Grantaire suffers from a rare condition that causes him to involuntarily travel through time. Sometimes he bumps into himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Reflection Breathing Out of Turn

_October, 1991 (Grantaire is 19, and 19)_  


The sun was sinking behind the campus buildings, throwing an orange glow across the quad outside Grantaire’s window. He watched the shadows elongate, slowly working his way through a bottle of Jack and trying to find the motivation to do anything other just sit.  


He had a pile of reading to do for his classes next week and a couple of deadlines looming which he really needed to start working on; but he felt drained.  


He brought the bottle to his lips again when someone started hammering on his door. It was all he could do not to slosh drink down himself as he was jolted from his daze.  


The hammering continued with persistence, despite the hope that if he ignored it it might just go away.  


“Alright, I’m fucking coming.” He grumbled, dragging himself to his feet and padding across the small rom. He swung the door open expecting any number of angry people, but he wasn’t expecting coming face to face with himself; even after nineteen years of this it still took him by surprise.  


“Want to leave me standing in the corridor any fucking longer?” the other Grantaire demanded, pushing through the door and picking at the clothes lying scattered on the floor of the room. “And would it kill you to do a wash? Jesus.” He sniffed at a sweatshirt and balked, throwing it across the room at Grantaire who was still stood by the closed door.  


“I don’t know, you tell me,” he bunched the shirt up and threw it back as his other self who was preoccupied with pulling on a pair of discarded grey sweatpants that had definitely seen better days. There was a hole in the left knee and streaks of paint adorned the right thigh. He didn’t bother with a shirt, instead slumping into the desk chair and helping himself to the bottle of Jack.  


“Still not made a start on those papers? Dude, please just get the fuck on with it.”  


Grantaire ignored him. “When are you from?”  


“Next Tuesday.” R pushed the books away in disgust. “I still haven’t started them either,” he added, looking slightly guilty.  


Grantaire had to laugh, at himself, at the absurdity of the situation. Making sure the door was definitely locked, he crossed the room and perched himself on the desk, stealing back the bottle and taking a much needed glug. The whiskey burned his throat, and his eyes stung slightly. But it helped, helped with mess of a situation. His double watched him with an amused air.  


“Don’t go to Lit Theory tomorrow.”  


“Why not?” Grantaire lowered the bottle and frowned at himself.  


“Tina’s still pissed at you.” R stole the bottle back and smirked around a sip. “It’s not going to be pretty.”  


“The fuck, dude? Why d’you have to say shit like that?”  


R shrugged.  


“I never know if you’re fucking with me.”  


“Well what’s the point of time travel if you can’t antagonise yourself?”  


“I hate you.”  


“Don’t worry, the feeling’s mutual.”  


Grantaire scowled at himself.  


He scowled at the purple stains under his eyes, the crooked lay of his nose, the stubble that said he hadn’t bothered shaving in a few days, the tangled bird’s nest of curls. There was a reason Grantaire didn’t have a mirror in his room, so he hated when these encounters forced him into face to face confrontations. He wanted to punch that tired face, scratch the pale gangly arms, add bruises to the yellow blossoms which smattered the left ribs (fading tributes to a brawl a couple of nights back; Grantaire had a vibrant purple display to match). It wasn’t healthy thought but he wanted to unleash all of the anger he had for himself…he wanted to scratch, bite –  


R pushed himself out of the desk chair and launched towards Grantaire, threading a hand behind his head, tangling his fingers into the curls and pulling their mouths together.  


It was a fierce and angry kiss, with both of them fighting for control. Grantaire pushed himself off the desk, forced his double to take a step backwards and brought his hands up, scratching at his back.  


His breath hitched as the other Grantaire bit down on his lower lip, tugging with a shade more forced that could be considered playful.  


Grantaire was already hard, and he wasn’t sure how he felt about that, other than that his cock was straining uncomfortably against his jeans. He envied himself for the loose grey sweatpants; not that his jeans were going to be in the way much longer – if the hungry look in his reflection’s eyes were anything to go by.  


His double sucked on Grantaire’s lower lip for a beat before pulling back and sweeping his hands under the hem of Grantaire’s shirt, pulling it off over his head brusquely. He took a moment to splay his hand over the purple bloom that marred his ribs, making Grantaire flinch, before diving in for another kiss. It was far too tender for Grantaire’s liking; it felt dangerous like pity and he didn’t need any fucking pity, especially not from himself. He brought his hands up to frame that face that was his own, using the leverage to drive the kiss back into urgent territory, before pulling away sharply and pushing R across the room towards the bed.  


“Ooh, Grantaire,” he heard him drawl coyly.  


“No talking,” he snapped, moving to straddle himself and using the new height difference to bear down and kiss him again.  


“Alright,” R said, pausing for a breath, hands moving down to unbutton Grantaire’s too-tight jeans. “But,” he nipped a kiss into Grantaire’s collar bone. “If there’s no talking,” his hands dragged the zip open and pushed inside. “then how can I talk _dirty_ ,” he fingers wrapped around Grantaire as he bit down onto his collar bone.  


Grantaire inhaled sharply, rocking up into the hand that was wrapped firmly around his erection, forcing friction. He tangled his fingers into those familiar dark curls, tugging the head up, forcing him to look at himself.  


“No talking,” he repeated with a low growl.  


This wasn’t exactly new for him. There’d been those few times in high school and that run in last spring, but it still didn’t make it any less strange. Any less wrong.  


Not that it _felt_ wrong. With the other Grantaire stroking his erection, grinding his own hard cock into Grantaire’s thigh, his hand scratching at the surprisingly tender spot at the back of his shoulder, it was very difficult to think of it as wrong.  


He tipped his head back and let out a low grown as his double slipped his thumb over the head of his cock, stroking and pumping in all the right ways, with just the right amount of pressure. It was torture. It was bliss.  


With a ragged breath he placed his hands on R’s shoulders and pushed him backwards onto the bed, the springs of the mattress creaking slightly underneath him.  


The grey sweatpants were doing nothing to restrain him, tented by the force of his proud erection, which sprang free was Grantaire pushed down the waist band. The other man rolled his hips to allow Grantaire to drag them down his thighs, brush his hands along the pale skin underneath, covered with soft dark hair, nails digging in just slightly. R hissed through a clenched jaw and shifted his hips.  


When Grantaire took him into his mouth – _devoured_ him, there was no other way to put it – he began to buck his hips in earnest, fucking his mouth as they both fought for control in this strange power play. This outpouring of pent up energy and frustration.  


“My god, you look filthy like that.” His double drawled, voice thick and slurred.  


Grantaire snapped his head up, and knelt up, a hand on the bed either side of R’s hips.  
“I _said_ no talking.”  


The other Grantaire replied with an unapologetic smile.  


“Do you have to antagonise everyone?” Grantaire demanded.  


“You know I do.”  


“Yeah, well it’s fucking annoying.”  


“You’re one to talk.”  


Grantaire watched as the figure on the bed propped himself up on his elbows and held his stare; a reflection breathing out of turn.  


“You don’t have to remind me,” he snapped in frustration.  


He didn’t reply, instead he pulled Grantaire down to his level, nipping at his throat before rolling out from underneath him and reaching for the lube which was stowed not so secretly under the bed.  


He stripped out of his sweats and ducked as Grantaire threw his jeans at him. He knew the move was coming. Just last week he’d been the one on the bed thro throw them.  


“Can’t outsmart me, dude,” he laughed, kneeling on the edge of the bed. “I have the upper hand this time.” He grabbed Grantaire’s arm and twisted him into his stomach, throwing him into the mattress without mercy.  


Grantaire grabbed a fistful of sheets as R slipped a well lubricated finger into him, then two, opening and scissoring and making him writhe with pleasure. He screwed his eyes shut, burying his head into the tangled sheets and tried to picture anyone, anyone but himself. He hated this, hated that he was the only one who seemed to be able to make him come undone like this. It was glorified masturbation and it was fucking infuriating.  


All at once Grantaire pushed into him, wasting no time in thrusting and rocking, giving him no time to adjust – but it felt so fucking good. He let out a strangled moan and bit down onto the sheets, as R rode him into the mattress.  


Flashes of high school flooded his mind. That bleak little room with the musty sheets; edging around each other, terrified and awkward. Trying not to dwell on what they were doing, what would happen if their father came home early.  


The museum on that very first night, the mysterious person who had shown him all those marvellous books and paintings. The crushing realisation when he understood there was no secret order of time travellers. There was only him.  


He was gagging on the sheets, hands scrabbling for purchase, for something to grip onto as Grantaire thrust against him with a desperate intensity. It was fast and dirty and unceremonious and brought over the edge all too soon. He threaded a hand down under his belly to stroke himself through the orgasm as it shuddered from him, moaning a mumbled, indecipherable string of strangled words.  


R followed not long after, Grantaire felt him shudder and still, gasping and panting before be slumped forwards into Grantaire’s back; hot and sticky with sweat.  


“Fuck _me_ ,” he heard himself exhale, the smirk practically audible.  


Grantaire wanted to punch him.  


“I hate you.”  


“Yep,” he returned, rolling off Grantaire and turning his head to look at him with glazed eyes. “Mind if I crash here for a while?”  


“Where the fuck else are you going to go?”  


“True.” He dragged a hand through his sweat slicked hair and scratched at his collar bone.  


Though, that being said, the bed wasn’t really big enough for the both of them, and they weren’t about to fucking cuddle.  


“Don’t worry,” R smiled lazily, reading the thoughts spelled out on Grantaire’s face – or remembering them from last week. “You’re going to start reading up for tomorrow.”  


Grantaire snorted.  


“If you don’t, McCarthy’s going to ring you out when he picks on you to answer.” He brought his leg up to kick Grantaire towards the edge of the bed. “You’ll thank me later.” He smirked, his eyes already closing as sleep washed over him. “I’ll be gone in an hour or two, should give you long enough to read the important stuff.” His eyes closed and he rolled onto his side, tucking a hand under his face. “Start with chapter three…” he added in a barely distinguishable mumble.  


Grantaire threw a pillow at him, but he was already sound asleep.  


“Dick.” He cursed at his sleeping self, dragging out the desk chair and slumping into it anyway. He flicked the desk light on and dragged the book towards him, naturally reaching for the bottle jack as well. It was only when he went to take a drink that he found it to be empty. It took every last ounce of strength not to throw the empty bottle at the Grantaire sleeping on the bed.  


“Fucking jerk.”

**Author's Note:**

> This isn't the R2E fic you were looking for (but that might come later if people show enough interest?)
> 
> -
> 
> Go an check out the main story ([x](http://archiveofourown.org/series/52177))
> 
> [ Tumblr :)](http://trenchcoatsandtimetravel.tumblr.com/)


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